


All The King's Men

by hiddenhibernian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Romance, F/M, Pining, Pining Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenhibernian/pseuds/hiddenhibernian
Summary: Hermione makes a deal with the Malfoys, trading her newfound status as war heroine against what remains of their power and fortune. The Statute of Secrecy is only two generations old, and the Muggles still remember burning witches. Marrying Draco is Hermione's lever to change the Wizarding world – fortunately he doesn't realise the extent of her ambitions... 18th century AU





	1. Vows

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed as of now - if you notice any mistakes, please point them out.

Hermione's hand was trembling. Straightening her back to disguise her untimely weakness, she sought comfort from the pressure of her tightly laced stays.

They were not hers, strictly speaking – none of the finery she wore belonged to her. The Malfoys had purchased her bride clothes just like they had purchased her, and that was why her hand was shaking slightly as she placed it on Draco's arm. They were to be wed today, surrounded by the surviving Blacks, Malfoys, and those of Hermione's friends who forgave her alliance with the enemy.

This was not what she had expected Victory to be like.

Kneeling before the altar, Hermione suppressed a wild laugh threatening to burst out, wondering what it would have been like if Voldemort had triumphed and Harry lost.

It was not remotely funny; she would not be here to make the jest had he who was both more and less than a man won the battle Harry Potter had been fighting for most of his life.

Hermione had fought on Harry’s side ever since she had stepped into the Wizarding World at the tender age of eleven, for amongst those who wielded magic, women took part in battles.

It seemed eminently sensible to her. Those who do not live by the sword can still be killed by it. If one could fight by using a wand, so much more powerful than a sword, why would one stand idly by?

Harry and Hermione had not been offered a choice in the matter, but many of their friends could have waited out the war at home instead. Some of their erstwhile friends, like Penelope Clearwater, had indeed done so.

A year after the war, Hermione could no longer muster enough zeal to condemn Penelope's choice. She had seen what remained of Hogwarts after the final battle – nobody in their right mind would choose to go through that if they did not have to, for one reason or other.

Lunatics like Bellatrix Lestrange, fortunately departed from this world, did not count.

At this very moment, Hermione could have been sitting in the comfortable parlour of the woman who had brought down Bellatrix Lestrange, surrounded by Weasleys of varying size.

The fact that she had chosen to ally herself to the Malfoys instead had been met with cold disapproval. Only Ron had labelled it a betrayal. It was understandable under the circumstances – she was still hoping the great chess strategist would apply his mind to the real world once his injured feelings had abated somewhat.

Perhaps in another seventy years, or so.

The path that had brought her before the finely wrought altar in St. James the Less in Diagon Alley seemed preposterous to Hermione too. In another life, she would have been as curious an onlooker as the Apostles jostling to get to the front of the painting adorning the church, to get a better look at the wedding ceremony.

* * *

“Were you not Muggle-born, our families would discuss the marriage contracts. As is proper.” For someone who had been roundly defeated, the younger Malfoy sneered very creditably.

“I do not recall agreeing to your proposal.”

“Again, under normal circumstances that would not be required.”

After receiving his initial letter, Hermione had agreed to meet him in the Hogwarts formal gardens out of sheer curiosity. A neutral venue had seemed wise.

As it was, having agreed to the encounter at all seemed unwise in the extreme.

“In which case, you would not be consulted either,” she pointed out. “If there is anything we can agree upon, surely it is that we earned the right to be masters of our own destinies.”

“Very glib, Granger. I forget you spent seven years providing the voice of sanity between Potter and Weasley.” He tugged at his expensive robes; they kept snagging on the herbaceous border.

“You are remarkably unobservant if you believe that is how it went. Although that has already been established, has it not?” She took great pleasure in using her sweetest tones.

“What do you mean by that?” The way he raised a single eyebrow unnerved her until she realised why it sat so awkwardly on his pointy face – he had copied it from Severus Snape, of course, but did not possess the gravitas that went with it.

“If it is truly beyond your understanding, I see no benefit to continuing this conversation.” Hermione had been through altogether too much to play any of his games; perhaps it showed on her face because Malfoy chose a different tack.

“I apologise. I find myself returning to our previous form of conversation out of habit. I shall make a determined effort not to revert to the level of fifth-year Potions class when we speak.“ He had picked up the habit of speaking like Snape, too: more formal when challenged.

“Exchanging insults, you mean? Good.” Hermione had no such tendencies – she would never admit it to Malfoy, but she would indeed have been greeted with incomprehension by Harry and Ron if she flung five-syllable words at them.

For all of his faults, no one could accuse Ron of having swallowed a dictionary.

“That being established, why don't you explain why you think I will agree to this daft scheme of yours?” she asked. “No matter what you may have been told, I didn't hit my head in the battle.” She hid her smile as he sighed heavily.

“I did not think that the concept of an arrangement to our mutual benefit would be so difficult for you to grasp. Not for the cleverest witch of our age, or whatever they used to call you.”

“I did not think that's what they called me that in the Slytherin common room.” Hermione could not resist.

Malfoy must have acquired some maturity at last, because he did not rise to the bait. “Your family are Muggles, of modest means. If you choose to return to them you will not be able to practice magic. All of Hogwarts knows you rejected Weasley's marriage proposal – I did not think he had it in him to produce actual fireballs. What will you do – teach?”

Hogwarts teachers famously received no stipends from the school – teaching was for gentlemen (and, surprisingly, gentlewomen). Hermione's family may be comfortably established – to Malfoy, anyone who did not own a palace was obviously a pauper – but the income from her father's practice would not suffice to support her in a separate establishment. She may be able to hide from her surviving enemies living like a Muggle with her parents indefinitely, but the prospect made any hope she felt for the future wither and die.

No Muggle would visit a surgeon if there were rumours his daughter was a witch. The older generation still remembered the time before the Statute of Secrecy – they knew the texture and smell of magic, the tiny tells of the world that had been hidden.

To escape detection, she would have to suppress most of what made her Hermione Granger – everything of importance that had occurred in the past ten years.

“As it is imperative that you marry, would it not be wiser to choose a rich man than a poor one?” Malfoy asked, smirk entirely absent as he offered her a way to stay where she belonged. “As Mrs Malfoy, you would wield a certain amount of influence,” he added, to sweeten the pill.

“As Mrs Hermione Malfoy, you mean. Mrs Narcissa Malfoy is not of the same consequence as she once was.” She had expected him to bridle at that; instead, he mistook her statement for agreement.

“Exactly. Which is why we find ourselves in need of a new branch on the family tree to restore the family name.” It came out with practised ease – the Malfoys must have discussed it at length between themselves before approaching her.

“New blood, as it were.” Hermione could not have stopped herself for a thousand Galleons.

The expression on his face was worth it.

Eventually, she agreed to his preposterous proposition. She had ridden a dragon before her twentieth birthday – marriage to Draco Malfoy could hardly compete. The advantages were too tempting to decline even though they came with a spineless husband attached. Nevertheless, for all his gormlessness, she made sure the marriage articles made her potential early demise a painful event for her new husband.

Being reckless was one thing; one did not need to be stupid, besides.


	2. Separate Pursuits

It came as a pleasant relief to find that fashionable couples did not spend much time together. Hermione, used to the confines of a more modest dwelling, was startled to realise she could go from morning to night without encountering her new husband. They frequently had separate engagements, and she even dared to hope Draco would soon find himself a mistress. That should keep him out of mischief.

They had consummated the marriage – Hermione wasn't about to take any chances with the legality of their union, and, surprisingly, neither was Draco. Fortified with multiple charms (and a Contraceptive Potion, though she had no intention of telling her new husband that), they brushed through it tolerably.

The Restricted Section had been rather informative, once she had known what to look for. It had been gratifying to hear Draco gasp, then move against her with increased frenzy. The sensation of his hands roaming over her body... she had found pleasure in it, even though she only would admit it to herself.

It was for the best. She had promised to put forward her best efforts to produce an heir, and Hermione Grang- no, Malfoy, kept her promises. Once she had been established to her satisfaction in her new position, the potion would go, but even then it may take several efforts. That did not trouble her as much as she had expected.

Besides, there were more important things to consider, such as the future of the Wizarding World.

It did not seem fit to bring a child into this world until it was rather better arranged. Not even a Malfoy.

* * *

For precisely thirteen seconds, entering the Greengrass' opulent ballroom was a daunting prospect, filled to the brim with the upper echelons of pure-blood society as it was.

Once they had been announced, Hermione and Draco stepped across the threshold in rare tandem. Jewellery flashed like a sky full of stars, and the mostly bewigged heads turned to observe them.

The familiar shape of her wand against her thigh, stowed into a strategically placed pocket, reassured her somewhat.

Holding her head high, she surveyed the crowd surrounding them with her hand resting lightly on Draco's arm – she would rather gnaw it off than cling to him for comfort.

Fawley. Greengrass (naturally). Slughorn. Shacklebolt!

She smiled but kept looking.

Parkinson. Rosier. Shafiq. Sel-

A pair of brilliant blue eyes made her catch her breath. She had seen that particular shade of blue before, on the other side of a wand pointing at her.

Until he had crumbled and fallen to the ground, his wand slipping out of their hand.

Hermione's side had won and theirs had lost, and the idea that she would feel any trepidation at all suddenly seemed ludicrous.

Sipping from the glass of rather inferior wine Draco had procured for her, she reflected upon the fact that people had been willing to die to keep witches like her away from this gathering.

If they believed that the worst she could do was to lower the tone of their amusements, they were very, very mistaken.

“How pleasant to make your acquaintance,” she said with a genuine smile as she offered her hand to a nondescript Rosier. The poor fellow had no idea about what was about to hit him.

She did notice Draco cast a suspicious sideways glance at her, however.

* * *

Once Hermione stopped expecting her mother-in-law to appear every time someone addressed her, the novelty of being Mrs Malfoy wore off. Being treated with deference by those who had faced her on the other side of drawn wands not so long ago was mildly amusing. Fortunately, she had abandoned any illusions of a sense of integrity being a prerequisite in public life a long time ago.

She was here to play The Game, and the importance she accorded to the inhabitants of the glittering salons she now was admitted was determined by how they could be of use to her.

The people who mattered to her in their own right mostly belonged in the familiar world she had left behind.

Upon occasion, she visited.

Entering the Longbottom's front parlour, the familiar smell of beeswax-polished furniture and dust was almost drowned out by the roses climbing everywhere they could find purchase.

Their petals were a soft pink, and Hermione unthinkingly stretched out a fingertip to follow the curve of the nearest flower.

“I would not do that if I were you. Sorry,” Neville added belatedly as tiny teeth appearing from amongst the petals grazed her, hard enough to draw blood.

“I should know better.” Hermione accepted the handkerchief proffered by the inevitable house-elf, already busy laying out tea-things for two. “I take it your grandmother is not joining us today?”

“She had urgent business in Scotland. No doubt she will tell me what she is up to in due course.” Neville got crinkles around his eyes when he smiled; had they been there since the war?

Hermione was ashamed to find that she could not remember.

“You could come to visit me, you know,” she suggested. Being a married woman and not having to worry about propriety was a blessed relief. Hermione had always been of the view that if wizards and witches could not contrive to disguise their improper behaviour, their years at Hogwarts had been entirely wasted.

Six months ago, taking tea with Neville unaccompanied by a chaperone would have caused a scandal, while the more realistic prospect of an unmarried witch using the Floo for clandestine meetings was entirely ignored by society. Perhaps everyone else was at it so they did not want to draw attention to it, Hermione thought wistfully. She had never had time for dalliances.

Neville recalled her to the present: “At Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes. I do live there, you know.”

“So I hear. I'm – I guess I am surprised. After what happened in the war, I mean,” Neville added in case she had forgotten.

“One of the conditions of accepting Draco's proposal was that that – that room be torn out. It is now part of a very smart gallery if you would care to see it. His parents live elsewhere, as you know.” The Malfoys had plenty of alternative residences, so they had hardly been cast out to live in the hedgerows.

Regardless of what Narcissa Malfoy may think, having to give up her exquisite set of rooms to a Muggle-born had nothing to do with spite. Hermione may not cry any tears for her, but it was the public statement she cared about.

The Malfoys that mattered were Draco and Hermione, not Narcissa and Lucius, and every time they received guests streaming into the magnificent ballroom lit by thousands of candles floating in the air the world was reminded of it.

“The greenhouse is bigger than Greenhouse Five at Hogwarts,” Hermione added. “I'm told the succulents are rather spectacular.”

“Your friends _should_ come to visit you in your own home,” Neville agreed. “Even if they're thick enough to need to be persuaded by succulents.”

She could have kissed him but contented herself with patting his hand.


	3. Finding The Key

“Harry. Luna. Ginny. Neville – I see you did not waste any time.” Hermione sat down, flattening her stiff, elaborately embroidered skirts with some difficulty. She had been expecting a different kind of morning visitors, the sort that required formal dress to be used as armour.

“You look much prettier when you're dressed like a rich person,” Luna said dreamily as she inspected the sneering portraits on the wall.

Ginny ignored her and dove straight into it: “Neville pointed it out that we were hardly treating you fairly. If you can stand to live here, surely your friends can make the effort to visit.”

“I see you made some changes. Or Malfoy, I suppose.” Harry looked around the newly decorated room – the paint had hardly had time to dry.

“I blasted the walls of the drawing room myself,” Hermione said. No one had stopped her. The house-elves had simply watched in bemused silence before carrying on with the renovations. Obviously, no one born a Malfoy (or Black) would have dreamed of sullying their hands with actual work, even if it was done using a wand.

Luna worked her way to the other side of the room, the light from the French windows surrounding her like a halo.

“You destroyed the dungeons, too. I'm glad,” she said, by the by.

Hermione eventually found her voice. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Perhaps you don't notice, as you're here all the time. Harry, you ought to be able to tell – does it feel like the bottomless void is gone, and the darkness isn't pulling you down anymore?”

“Do you mean in general, or just here at Malfoy Manor?” Harry asked. Hermione admired the way his voice almost wasn't shaking with suppressed laughter. He was holding Ginny's hand, however, and the grip looked uncomfortably tight.

“Here, of course. Strange. I suppose you were a bit preoccupied with other things the last time you were here, so perhaps you did not have time to notice,” Luna allowed kindly.

“You’ll need to pay more attention in the future, Harry.” Hermione did her best to sound perfectly serious.

Harry looked at her, his green eyes full to the brim with laughter. It felt like coming home: to be with her dearest friends again, on the same easy terms with them as before her marriage.

She would never have believed she would find happiness in an excessively gilded parlour in Malfoy Manor, but it was right there - in the flash of red hair reflected in the mirror when Ginny turned her unpowdered head, in the steady clasp of Neville's hands resting on the head of a Hippogriff carved into the armrest of his chair, and in the natural ebb and flow of conversation amongst old friends.

The only dissonant note was the missing piece, the empty chair. Hermione could live the rest of her life in perfect happiness without a single conversation about Quidditch, but hearing Ginny falter and fall silent, knowing that her brother would have interjected had he been there, was like reopening an old wound.

Ron should be there with them. That was an unassailable fact, if for no other reason than that they had lost far too many people already. Hermione had to find a way to make her peace with him somehow.

Even she could admit that the vanguard of Dumbledore's Army visiting Malfoy Manor was sufficient for one day, however, so she resolved to enjoy it while it lasted.

The last flutter of Luna's robes had barely departed the entrance hall when the master of the house returned home by Floo.

“Good afternoon.” Hermione stretched to an infinitesimal courtesy and rolled her eye at the graceful bow she received in return. Although it was worth it to see the feathers in Draco's hat curl up so they did not dislodge the bowl of peonies on the sideboard. The best thing of marrying into a pure-blood family was how magic was woven into every aspect of their life.

“May I have a word?” He offered her his arm as they entered the Grey Salon.

“Marital felicity truly is the highest form of happiness available to man,” Hermione said, making sure she placed her hand where Neville had spilt some tea on her gown. She did not care to share anything that her friends had left behind with her husband, even if it was of no consequence whatsoever (the Malfoy house-elves possessed the knack of removing anything from silk without leaving a mark. She preferred not to dwell on how they had learnt that).

“Do forgive me, that was several words,” she added. “Perhaps you had something more concise in mind.”

He sighed, to her gratification. Needling Malfoy was so satisfying. “I went to Azkaban today.”

That was one way to steer the conversation down a different path. The air suddenly seemed to have been sucked out of the room, and Hermione could have sworn the fire flickered and dimmed.

“Whom did you meet?” she asked, having no desire to prolong things.

“Greg – Gregory Goyle. He is coming up towards the end of his sentence. Or rather, it may be the end – his case is up for review next month.”

Hermione did not want to think about Gregory Goyle ever again if she could help it.

She had heard Ginny cry out his name in her sleep, caught in a nightmare back at Hogwarts during that terrible year. Goyle had been sentenced to Azkaban after practising Unforgivables on students at Hogwarts, with the impeccable logic that if he had believed they were old enough to suffer the spells, then he certainly was of the appropriate age to suffer the consequences. These no longer entailed a life sentence in Azkaban; overcrowding and a desire to heal divisions had made the reformed Ministry more clement than its predecessors.

Hermione had approved, but no one had asked for her opinion. 

In the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts, she had been a sought-after guest, but when it mattered she was still a Muggle-born witch with no connections or position of her own. That was why she had married Malfoy, she reminded herself, and resolved to agree to what she was almost certain that he would ask of her.

What did it matter that Goyle did not serve his rightful sentence when she would have a favour in store from Draco?

_Eyes on the prize_, she reminded herself. She was playing the long game, and she could not afford to be sentimental. Ron's behaviour should be sufficient testimony to that.

“I believe Mrs Longbottom is a member of the committee. Perhaps I ought to pay her a visit tomorrow?” She smiled at Draco, whose shoulders relaxed visibly.

“If you could only remind her he was previously of impeccable character...”

There was no need to spell out that he would owe her something in return; they were married, after all. Spouses had myriad ways of making each other's lives uncomfortable even without magic, and Hermione had always been more vindictive than Draco.

She hoped he had realised that already, for his own sake. Hexes caused such nasty scars.

* * *

Embarrassingly, it was not until Hermione visited the Malfoi vineyards that she understood why the Malfoys had picked her as the way to restore their fortunes.

Row after row of vines weighed down with plentiful bunches of grapes stretched all the way to the horizon. Occasionally the ripple of a fecundity spell distorted the vista as if the hill had sneezed.

“We introduced this new variety some ten years ago, and it seems to be growing well. The locals call it _Petite Vidure_, I believe.” Draco tugged at a vine as if he were giving it an exam.

Hermione had already done so, and quickly swallowed the grape in her mouth. Then she promptly spat it out, recoiling at the taste. Grapes for making wine were not sweet on the tongue. “What, were all the old vines just torn up? Or did you do it field by field?”

He looked at her as if she had two heads. “Everywhere at once, of course. What would be the point of growing an inferior type of vine?”

Hermione could come up with at least a dozen off the top of her head, but she did not voice any of them. She was busy having an epiphany. Luckily, it did not prevent her from admiring the fat, dark blue grapes during their stroll through the vineyard.

Malfoys had to have the best; that was what they were, their _raison d'être_ to borrow a local expression. They would think nothing of tearing up fully functional vines to produce slightly better wine a few decades earlier. How had she failed to appreciate that the same single-mindedness inevitably would be applied to arranging Draco's marriage?

On the marriage market for witches, she was the best, or at least the best available. They would probably have preferred Ginny, trading some credentials for saving the Wizarding world against pure blood, but only a simpleton would have attempted to prise her from Harry's side when the objective was to join that selfsame side.

Alas for Ron, he was the wrong sex to be courted. No doubt he would be crushed if she ever had the opportunity to tell him.

Hermione's pleasure in her realisation was entirely unconnected with the value she placed on the Malfoys' opinion of her (they had chosen Voldemort, after all) – it was the implications for her personal safety that interested her. She had been quite sure that she had made it unthinkable for Draco to kill her, in as many ways as she could think of, but one could never be completely certain.

Knowing that Draco had proposed to her for a good reason made her even more determined to make full use of her new position. The Malfoys were not stupid, but they may not realise the extent of her ambitions for the wizarding world.

Hermione saw no pressing need to educate them. She merely smiled and let Draco show her the rest of _Château de Malfoi_.


	4. The Heir

She could barely believe it. 

The potion, which most definitely had not been on Snape's curriculum at Hogwarts, had turned a bright blue. 

Hermione stared at the shimmering liquid that held her future as if it would flicker and change its mind when questioned, but it remained steadfast. The eyes of a newborn child were always blue, she recalled distantly – perhaps that was why. 

Her limbs felt unaccountably heavy; she allowed her knees to fold and sat down gingerly on the gilded chair in her dressing room turned into a makeshift Potions laboratory. There was probably one on the premises, but she had no desire to draw attention to her monthly brewing. So far, the results had been of little notice – as of today, she would not be amazed if Draco engaged a Healer to live on the premises to safeguard his investment. 

No, that was unfair. 

The Malfoys' sole redeeming grace was that they loved each other more than they had loved Voldemort and all his promises. There was no doubt they would love this child. There was even a nursery, already prepared for its next occupant, in the east wing. 

Hermione had no business getting cold feet now – it was more than a year ago she had cast her dice and agreed to a union . This was the inevitable outcome. 

Regardless, her hand was shaking slightly as she stretched it out to grab the bottle and seek out her husband to announce the news. 

Perhaps he could wait another minute, as she acknowledged the full extent of what she had committed to. 

This was going to be her child, her son or daughter. She was going to have to find a way to instil them with proper principles, to counter the influence of the other side of their family and much of the world it would grow up in, to make sure they knew they were half Granger, and Muggles were their kin and not their enemies. 

Even a Gryffindor could find that a daunting prospect. 

Eventually, she stood up on somewhat shaky legs and went to tell her husband.

* * *

“You are – That is, we – One should start by–“ 

It was quite amusing to hear Draco stammering to some sort of conclusion, but unfortunately she did not have all day to wait for him to formulate a complete sentence. 

“I believe the process involves only the mother from this point. I promise to alert you if your involvement is required.” It wasn't until she was mid-turn that she realised she had been smiling at her husband, quite unconsciously. 

Well, why not? She had no desire to make life miserable to pursue a point of principle (S.P.E.W. had been a useful lesson in many ways). 

Draco finally found his voice and promptly wiped the smile off her face.

“You will be wanting your mother, of course,” he said, hesitance in every syllable. 

Hermione's face was studiously blank as she turned back to face him again. “There are many things I want that I cannot have.” 

He flinched. 

She couldn't quite place the expression in his eyes, and suddenly she was out of all patience trying. Gathering her skirts in her hands she swept out of the room towards her own chambers, remembering her only visit to her parents as a married woman.

* * *

“He is – well, not quite what I expected, dear. People change, of course.” Her mother looked vaguely bewildered at her newly acquired son-in-law, who was laughing heartily at something Mr Granger had told him. 

Hermione did not inform Mrs Granger that her husband's affability was due to him being many miles away at Malfoy Manor. As long as Neville remembered to sneak a sip of Polyjuice every hour, her parents would be none the wiser. 

Harry had volunteered, of course, but it was better this way. He could step in to redirect the conversation if Neville got nervous, and the latter displayed entirely genuine bewilderment in the face of Muggle peculiarities. Draco would probably have been more inclined towards suspicion than curiosity, but the Grangers did not need to know that. 

Hermione had rallied her friends to put her parents' minds at ease with her marriage. It cut at her heart, deceiving them again after exiling them to the colonies during the war, but it could not be helped. 

Better she carried the burden of her choice than they; far better. 

Still, she had to turn aside to hide her tears at her mother's remarks when they were leaving: 

“I know it wasn't the match your heart would have chosen, but I think you made a good choice. Anyone can tell you are on excellent terms. In my experience, that sort of easy understanding is fertile soil for love and respect to grow. I do not think you will regret it.” 

Her mother was right. She did not regret it, nor did she regret a decade spent shielding her parents from the darker side of the magical world. 

It came at a price, however. 

They did not know how close the Wizarding world had come to the abyss, even now, and hence they would not be able to understand the extent of what she was willing to do to prevent it from happening again. 

For a brief moment in that sunny parlour of her childhood, Hermione had allowed her mind to drift to another world, where she had indeed married Neville. His blood was as pure as Draco's – why not? 

There would have been laughter, their friends treating their houses like it was their own, a steady supply of flowers blooming like it was spring in November... and Neville's brown, plant-scarred hand in hers. 

To have and to hold. 

It was a beautiful picture, and she felt a pang when she let it go. Neville would be her friend until her dying day, so allying herself to him would have been pointless. 

Even if he had offered for her, which he had not. 

Draco represented enticing possibilities, if not quite beyond her wildest imagination (back at Hogwarts, she had sometimes imagined a world where his family and their ilk had sunk beyond reproach after the defeat of Voldemort, but sadly the world remained somewhat imperfect). 

To be fair, the possibility that Draco would suggest involving her Muggle mother in her confinement had never even occurred to Hermione. She had not anticipated having to explain why her parents already thought themselves familiar with him. 

He took it quite well, considering. 

“I had better ask Longbottom how he takes his tea,” was all Draco said. 

Hermione could save him the bother. “A splash of milk and two sugars. Although your preferences may have changed – it was more than a year ago.” 

It had been so easy to pinch one of his hairs. It would have been easy even if they hadn't been intimate – did not most people shed hairs, or other things indiscriminately? Sometimes it baffled Hermione that wizards left their homes at all. 

Draco must have been thinking something similar. 

“We should agree on test questions,” he said in a brisk voice, changing the tone of the conversation abruptly. “If – When they're needed.”

“When.” Hermione nodded, pressing her lips together. 

Both of them knew the crucial ingredient for Polyjuice could be had, at a price, for almost anyone. Charms could guard against the careless shedding of hair, one could take to wearing a set of jewellery with stones particularly resistant to magic to make it harder for impostors, and wards could fend off the uninvited, but no one was immune. 

She was not sure on which side Draco would fight in the next war – or actually, she was. He would be on the Malfoys' side, now and always. The child she was carrying would be a Malfoy, so in all likelihood, they would be on the same side. 

Probably. 

And if not, she knew more curses than he did. 

“Ask me what happened when my Aunt Susan brought me to London when I was seven...”

* * *

A Healer had been engaged, the rooms made ready and a staggering pile of clothing been sewn for the infant. 

One matter of importance remained to be settled, however. 

Hermione opened hostilities first; for all she knew, her husband may still be labouring under the illusion he would get his own way. She chose her moment carefully. They had fallen into the habit to go for a stroll in the gardens at the Manor before dinner when the evenings began to get brighter. They stuck to it, even as the evening air grew heady with the fragrances of summer. 

Almost every day, Draco inquired about her health as well as the baby's, and he did not hesitate to press her for details should she mention some trifling ailment. Quite the devoted husband; one could almost anticipate he would be as dutiful a father. 

If he could also refrain from following his father's example and throw in his lot with the next Dark Lord, Hermione had higher hopes for him than she had ever had during their long acquaintance. 

She waited until his hand was placed on her belly, straining to catch a kick from the Malfoy heir. 

“I do hope you realise I will not consent to this child being given an outlandish name. Lyra, Cassiopeia, Leo... I don't give a damn. It will be a normal name, so help me Merlin.” She looked resolutely forward, but she could feel his hand twitch. 

“Boötes is sadly underused,” he pointed out. “Berenice was the name of an actual woman if that is your concern.” In the finest Malfoy tradition, his voice gave her no clue as to what he was thinking. 

Two could play that game. “You forgot Eridanus.”

“A fine name. For a river.” 

She looked at him then. To her surprise, Draco was smiling. 

“I must admit I quite like the idea of a normal name. Jane, perhaps. Or Katherine. I used to pretend I was called John sometimes as a child,” he said. 

“I remember insisting to the children in the village that my name really was Anne.” 

“Perhaps it will be a little Anne, then. Anne Berenice Helen Malfoy.” She had not expected him to remember her mother's name; the unprompted suggestion to honour her Muggle mother by naming their potential daughter after her made Hermione feel like her chest was bursting with unexpected affection. 

Without realising what she was doing she raised Draco's hand to her mouth and kissed it. It felt more intimate than conceiving a child with him, and she felt her cheeks bloom red as she let his hand drop again. 

It found its way to hers, and so they walked hand in hand through the gardens, wrapped in the humming sound of a hot summer day coming to a close. The scents of roses and lavender and jasmine made a heady mix in the air heavy with heat, living things singing and chirping and buzzing everywhere. 

It was a marvellous moment to be alive, and it seemed right to share it with the father of her unborn child. 

Even though he were Draco Malfoy.

* * *

John Scorpius David Malfoy was born on the first of September. Hermione looked at his blue eyes, blinking uncertainly in the bright sunlight, and wondered what one earth one did with a baby. 

It would come to her, she assumed. 

Then he started crying, putting an end to the last thought she was able to follow to its conclusion for several months.

* * *

Once she emerged from the fog of nursing the baby herself, snatching bits of sleep and keeping the peace between Grangers and Malfoys by rationing the time spent holding their grandson, Hermione took stock. 

She had fulfilled her end of the bargain. That was good. 

While doing so, she had also ensured that her first concern no longer would be her parents, or Harry, or her other friends. The key to her heart rested in the chubby fists of her son, which was alarming considering that it would be at least eleven years before he would even be able to wield a wand. 

That part was worrying. 

One had to admit that it was quite convenient that John would grow up at Malfoy Manor, one of the safest residences in Britain (it was even more so since Hermione finally had got time to Apparate to Hogwarts and look up a few choice texts).

In addition to his doting grandparents, he had a nursery crammed full of toys he was too young to do anything other than dribble on for now and a score of house-elves battling to get their hands on The Heir. 

His mother could afford to spend some time making the world outside the Manor a better place for him, once he got the hang of walking. 

Donning a drab brown cloak she kept for precisely this purpose, Hermione prepared to Apparate. 

It felt as if she were setting herself free.


	5. The Mission

It was the third time this month. The third time he had caught her at it, at least. 

Draco was under no illusions as to his intellectual prowess compared to his wife's. It was only by virtue of having been born a Malfoy that he was more devious than she, by dint of frequent exposures. Sneaking out without announcing where one was going probably passed for subterfuge in Gryffindor tower. 

Being more familiar with the Manor also helped. Disguised in an alcove designated to unseen observe who Disapparated from the house, Draco counted the times Hermione slipped away. 

Several times a month, she wrapped herself up in some garment entirely unsuited to her station and Apparated away, only to return hours later. She seemed more tired than usually afterwards, languidly strolling around the gardens for their evening walk rather than her usual brisk stride. 

Draco was taken aback by his reluctance to believe his own eyes. He continued to find excuses for her: she would not be stupid enough to Apparate from her own house, she would travel somewhere else first. She would announce an assignment with Potter or some other bosom friend, rather than disappearing without a word. 

She would not break her word to him. 

He snorted at his own stupidity at the last one – as if that would make a difference. It had not mattered to him – 

Fortunately for what remained of his self-respect, his trail of thought was cut short by Hermione's return. Or he assumed it was her – the pot-bellied bearded stranger was dressed in the same cloak as she had worn a few hours ago. The mud on his boots was fresh, however. 

“Password?” It came out more sharply than he had intended. 

“Primrose. And you?” she returned with aplomb, belly shrinking as she spoke. 

“Stevedore.” He made an undignified exit from the alcove (she would certainly remember where it was the next time) and planted his clean boots in front of her dirty ones. “Where have you been?”

“To London.” She slid her arms out of the plebeian cloak and folded it up, far more neatly than it deserved. ”Is there a particular reason you were hiding or were you practising for hide and seek? I believe children need to learn to walk first, so there is still time.” 

“Pretending to be innocent does not become you.” 

She rolled her eyes at that, and Draco's shoulders relaxed fractionally. “If you want to know what I have been up to, you could just ask. Or is that not complicated enough for a Malfoy?” 

Gryffindors. Sometimes it was easier to humour them for the moment. So he did: “What did you do, then?” 

“I went to see how the new Foundling Hospital is coming on. It won't be long before the first part is finished. It is a fine building, you should see it.” 

“Venture among the Muggles?” Draco reconsidered, and realised it was even worse than that. “_Common_ Muggles?”

“I seem to have survived unscathed.” Hermione had mercifully regained her own appearance, but she was still dressed like a Muggle man. Twice her own size, so she had to hold her breeches up to be able to walk. 

Come to think of it, she was hardly dressed like a gentleman, unless the Muggles' standards had deteriorated rapidly in the last six decades. 

“Please tell me you were not walking in the street. At the very least you hired a sedan-chair, even if you didn't bring any outriders.” 

Draco did not need to see her face to know that had gained him another eye roll – her back was wonderfully expressive. Very slowly, she turned around. 

“That would rather have defeated the purpose. How would I be able to see what is happening in the city if I'm shut up in a chair?” 

Hermione was not fond of horses; Draco assumed it was for the same reasons she disliked brooms but had not ventured to mention it, as he would no doubt get told off for his trouble. Which left...

“Walking. You went walking.” His voice was flat. 

Hermione sighed. “Yes, well done. Five points to Slytherin. No doubt your mother never sullied her feet by putting them on a common street in her life, but alas I lack her refinement. If you have sufficiently absorbed your misfortune in being married to a commoner, I shall proceed to get changed into something more appropriate.” 

Severus Snape must be rolling in his grave at that dreadful attempt at sarcasm. 

“How can you – Did you not stop to consider your safety at all?” 

“I am a witch among Muggles. Most people would be more concerned about the Muggles.” 

This time, it was Draco who rolled his eyes. 

“I have a sword, you know,” she said, like she was speaking to a child. One that was a bit slow on the uptake. 

“Having a sword you don't know how to use is more dangerous than not having one!”

“Whatever makes you think I can't use it?” 

The way Draco's mouth fell open was probably adequate to convey that no, he did not know that. 

“You will have to take my word for it, but I'm not a bad fencer. At least not if I'm aided by a charm or two.”

“Potter?” he asked, mostly for the sake of saying something. 

“And Ron. Seems like he found it easier to forgive me for marrying you if he could teach me something Muggle into the bargain.” 

Draco did not know quite how it had happened, but somehow they were both smiling. At each other, no less. 

“Never attempt to understand a Weasley,” he said. “Although –“ 

Being married could be very convenient. Hermione's twitching eyebrow and Draco's narrow mouth neatly bypassed the audible quarrel that no doubt would have ensued two years ago. 

“Please be careful. For John's sake, if nothing else.” He must finally have acquired the knack of speaking to Gryffindors, because she was smiling again. 

“I promise. Now, would you like to hear what I have found out?”

* * *

Draco found an unobtrusive spot at the back of the room, where he could lean against a Doric column. He knew very well he had only been admitted on a sufferance. It was probably a good idea to try to look rich, should anyone spare him a glance – his wealth was one of the two reasons he had been permitted into the holiest of holies. 

The second reason sat down on a chair right in front of the Minister's desk, accompanied by the sound of silken folds rearranging themselves. Hermione was dressed according to the latest Muggle fashion today, but she was not above using a fashionable spell or two. 

One lock of powdered hair had escaped its confines, bouncing up and down every time she moved her head. 

Had they been at home, Draco would have leant forward and stuck it back into its place, but here he wisely kept his hands in his pockets. 

“Mistress Malfoy, I confess to great curiosity as to what your 'proposal' may be.” Minister Shacklebolt cleared his desk of knick-knacks, spare wands and letters, to allow Hermione to spread the roll of parchment she had spent several days enchanting before him. 

“London is changing,” she began. “The Muggles are building a modern city, laying down new foundations after the Great Fire, and the fabric of the old city is disappearing.” 

She tapped the parchment with her wand, and tiny buildings shot up like mushrooms across the map of the city. The Thames wound through it like a serpent, steady and slow, but even the river was changing. New bridges grew across it, and new embankments grew up along its shores. 

“As witches and wizards, our lives are at the margins of the city. Our places are secret, hidden down a dark alley or disguised between two rackety buildings from before the fire. We rely on the shadows to hide us from the Muggles.”

“You don't agree with that approach?” The Minister's voice was politely interested. Considering that both he and Hermione recently had fought a war against those who had argued for the Wizarding World to step out of the shadows, he was doing well. 

“I think we could come up with something better,” Hermione said. 

It was obvious to everyone in the room that she already had, so no one cared to interrupt her as she explained: 

“Diagon Alley has the highest concentration of magical dwellings in London.” Tap, went her wand, and a minuscule but recognisable street gleamed blue. “Add Knockturn Alley –“ another tap, “– and we have almost half a mile of interlinked streets. Add the laneways and back alleys, and there is scope to build – but I will get to that later. The Muggle merchants and tradesmen can be bought out or swap with the wizarding population that currently lives elsewhere in the city.”

The Minister leaned back in his gilded chair, pressing the fingertips of each slim brown hand against its counterpart. “What would it give us, other than fewer opportunities to get acquainted with our Muggle neighbours?” 

Hermione met his gaze steadily, as if she had been thinking of little else for the last year. 

Or more. Draco wondered if this was why she had married him. Knowing Hermione, this was probably only one part of her plan. 

“A place to grow,” she said. “Pride. A space that is our own, where we can attempt to keep pace with the Muggles. Make no mistake, the Muggle world is advancing in leaps and bounds. Imagine somebody who left it at eleven and now returns, one hundred years later. It is not an uncommon lifespan for a wizard, and yet they may be utterly befuddled if confronted with London as it is today.” 

She tapped the parchment with her wand again, and innumerable recent additions to the city sprang up. “I am not talking about mere buildings, but what they represent. The coffee houses, newspapers – would they even realise why there are so many Scots here?” 

For the first time, she looked away from the Minister. Standing behind her, Draco followed her trail around the room: Potter, next to her, arm resting on the back of her chair to lend his support literally as well as figuratively. 

He had always been as subtle as a Flobberworm, but he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Damn his sanctimonious arse. 

Mrs Potter, resplendent in blue brocade, by his side. Interesting: some Weasleys did know how to dress, once they got their hands on some Galleons. 

McGonagall. It did not take a genius to deduce she was here to lend credibility to Hermione's arguments concerned with how Muggle-borns would react to entering a world of magic less advanced than the one they were leaving behind. 

Or possibly the other way around. Draco hoped not – being a pure-blood unfamiliar with recent Muggle advances was his only unique qualification amongst those present. 

Loony Lovegood did not count – she was unfamiliar with most recent developments amongst wizards, never mind Muggles. Yet there she was, next to old Mrs Longbottom. 

Then there was the goblin. Draco was not sufficiently familiar with goblins to assign a name to it, or even ascertain if they had met before, but its presence was intriguing. Hermione had neglected to mention that detail, just like she had not informed Draco that his aunt Andromeda would be attending. 

As allies went, it was a motley crew. 

The Minister was flanked by a Weasley Draco decided must be Percy. The aura of smugness was overwhelming, even as he carried out the menial task of recording the minutes. On the Minister's other side, Rufus O'Neill watched the proceedings from under heavy-lidded eyes. 

“You are saying that we need to keep up with the Muggles, as it were?” O'Neill asked, and Draco recalled that he was reputed to be sharp. He had done Draco's side considerable damage in the War, after all. 

Hermione nodded, the unruly lock of hair bouncing again. “Indeed. For several reasons: firstly, to keep the connection to the Muggle world alive for those who live mostly among wizards. Secondly, to ensure those who always have dwelt among wizards can step into the Muggle world if they so choose. Thirdly, not to fall behind: many of the changes are worthwhile in themselves. Why should wizards deliberately chose to cut themselves off from the best ideas of their fellow citizens?” 

“The way to achieve this noble aim is to isolate ourselves further?” The Minister and O'Neill appeared to be of one mind today – the Minister had spoken this time, but it may as well have been O'Neill. 

Percy Weasley was entirely occupied by his malfunctioning quill and had no attention to spare for matters of state. Everyone else was looking at Hermione. 

“To make the changes more palatable to those who otherwise may resist them. Consider what we perceive as the natural order of things. Some witches and wizards are born amongst Muggles and know nothing of the Wizarding World until they enter it at the age of eleven. Most of the time, they leave their families behind, becoming increasingly absorbed by this new world which does its utmost to make sure they know their place: at the bottom of it.” 

Her voice became sharper and sharper towards the end, until it cut like a knife. 

“One's previous rank is deemed unimportant, because what matters is magical lineage. I was not born at the time of the Statutes of Secrecy, but it is my understanding that the fixation on preserving every scrap of privilege for pure-bloods started then. Not by everyone, but a powerful faction nonetheless.” 

“That is entirely correct. No one cared a fig for pure blood when I was a girl, not if they had the chance to snag a marquess!” Mrs Longbottom's reedy voice turned heads her way. “No need to look at me like that, Draco Malfoy – your own great-grandfather had his head turned by a Welsh heiress, as Muggle as they come.” 

How strange – no one had bothered telling him that when he had been taught family history as a boy. 

“Siege mentality,” Hermione laid the words down like slabs of stone, wrestling back the initiative (although Draco had no doubt she would quiz Mrs Longbottom about the details later. If he was lucky, she would tell him too). 

“It is a natural reaction when one is under threat,” she continued, once she had everyone's attention again. “'Defend what is ours, I shall hold what is mine until my last breath. Every year, new interlopers arrive, and they all want a piece of someone else's birthright. The only way to stop them is not to surrender an inch.” 

Draco nodded, even though Hermione could not see him. It could have been his father speaking, or his departed aunt (_not_ the one present). 

“However,” she continued drily, “it is not a tenable strategy when one is slowly becoming outnumbered. Hence, it spills into open warfare. Minister, unless you wish to fight the same battle over and over again until there are no pure-bloods left, we need to begin doing things differently. Starting with using Muggle-borns as a link to the Muggle world, rather than pushing them to sever the bond as quickly as possible.”

“I assume the presence of our esteemed goblin friend means that you have considered the financial implications of such a venture? Our coffers are rather strained at the moment.” The Minister gave absolutely nothing away, and Draco was reminded to shift his weight to his heels. It did not behove him to be more transparent than a Shacklebolt. 

“We are willing to discuss terms in exchange for a share of the land.” The goblin's voice was high and clear – surely it could not be a female? Draco stole a glance at its bald head. Despite witches recently abandoning the fashion for wigs, there may be scope for a wigmaker's establishment in the new Diagon Alley. 

He was recalled to the discussion at hand when Hermione spoke again: 

“This is but one prospective avenue of reforms, Minister. No task worth undertaking is easy – I would not expect to eradicate blood prejudice to be either. Nevertheless, what I propose may go some small way towards preventing the next war.”

Nobody in that room, with the possible exception of Percy Weasley who was scribbling furiously in a vain attempt to keep pace with the conversation, doubted her determination to find other ways to achieving the task she had set herself. 

Minister Shacklebolt rose manfully to the occasion. “In that case, Mistress Malfoy, I can only thank you for the trouble you have expended on all our behalf. If you kindly could leave the details of your plan – I'm quite sure you have several rolls of parchment disguised somewhere – Mr O'Neill will study them in detail.” 

In the corner of his eye, Draco saw Luna Lovegood open her mouth to speak. He knew, he just knew she would say something disastrous in her usual mild voice and ruin all Hermione's hard work, and he could not think of one single thing he could do to stop her that would be acceptable in polite society.

Heart sinking with dread, he waited for the inevitable and it did not come. Lovegood's mouth seemed to have become stuck halfway open, and the meeting ended upon the usual courtesies. 

It was not until Mrs Potter winked at him on the way out that he realised she must have been prepared for that specific moment all the time, wand ready. 

By the time he realised that his lady wife most likely had asked her to do so, it was the middle of the night and he had woken up in a sweat. 

Perhaps, one day, he would be privy to all of Hermione's plans. He was not sure if this should be considered a blessing or a curse. 

If he had married Pansy Parkinson as originally planned, his biggest concern would have been whether full-length sleeves was sufficiently dowdy to consider following the Muggle fashion for elbow-length sleeves. 

Draco could not help thinking it would have been unbearably boring, which could be an early indication he was losing his mind. He tossed and turned for several hours before deciding that as he was going to Hell anyway, he may as well take what pleasures he could find on the way. 

His resolution was about to be sorely tested, albeit not quite in the manner one would have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to Terry Pratchett for the quip about the sword


	6. Coming To Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have discovered that the deadline for WIP Big Bang is today, so these last two chapters may be a smidgen rushed - if you notice anything that doesn't make sense or stray commas, do please let me know so I can fix them. Thank you!

It came to him slowly, as most epiphanies do. 

Even his realisation that Muggles bleed with the same blood as someone who can trace their lineage back to Merlin had been slow in coming, even though it had been a shock at the time. It was Draco's usual luck that mere hours separated the acquisition of his Death Eater tattoo and the decision that he wanted nothing more to do with the whole business. 

This was not dissimilar. 

Once again he had exactly what he had wanted, only to find it was not what he desired after all. 

Draco did not consider himself a stupid man. When he started paying attention, it took him only a few months to realise what a fool he had been. 

Hermione greeted him pleasantly enough when he returned from a trip to London or seeing to the estate on horseback, but never with the light in her eyes she reserved for Weasley, the Potters and Longbottom – even Loony Lovegood. 

Her friends, whom she loved. 

Draco had thought he had triumphed over Weasley, once he had acknowledged to himself that Hermione was a prize worth winning. The only prize. 

He was not a stupid man. Marriage was a practical institution. He was Hermione's lawful wedded husband for a great number of sensible reasons, and she had never promised him any share of her affection. 

There was no reason whatsoever for the lingering heartache Draco suffered every time he observed the warmth she treated her friends with, and there was no remedy for it either. He nursed a pitiful sort of hope that Hermione's affections would grow with time, but when he observed the Potters it withered and died. 

One could not go from the sort of pragmatic truce established by the Malfoys to that – that tender offering of sentiments, a hand stretching out to touch a cheek as if it could not bear to remain separated from its owner one second longer than necessary. 

Draco observed it and hated Harry Potter for making him wish for something he could never have. 

Most of the time Draco successfully fooled himself into believing he had everything he ever had wished for (spending much of his early life ignoring the evidence before his own eyes did constitute useful practice). 

He had plenty to distract himself with: there were rumblings from France, where what remained of Voldemort's followers had assembled around the Young Pretender. To the Muggles, he was the last link to the old faith, the last Stuart with a claim to the thrones of Great Britain. To wizards, the whispers in the dark places suggested his message was more radical. In pursuit of what he claimed was his birthright, it was rumoured that he was willing to tear up the Statues of Secrecy. 

Half-blood by birth, Charles Stuart had little time for Voldemort's blood mania. He was interested in power, and if it could be got by offering the renegades of the wizarding world what they wanted, he may consider it a fair trade. 

If he were to trust to his Muggle followers he would never even make it to London, that much was clear. 

Draco paid an inordinate amount of Galleons to be kept informed of what men said in their cups in seedy Parisian taverns, and sometimes compared notes with Auror Potter. 

John grew stout and began to talk – slowly, at first, and then he never ceased until firmly bidden to stop. Hermione continued her excursions into the Muggle world. Sometimes, the endless love and patience she had for their son remained in her eyes as she looked at Draco. 

Or so he told himself. 

Occasionally, the blindfold Draco voluntarily had assumed slipped, as it did at Evelina Rosier's ball. 

The vast ballroom was sparsely populated. It had been designed for an earlier age, when Muggles notabilities would have danced alongside wizards and Draco might have bandied words with women without a spark of magic, provided they were pretty enough. 

The current French fashion for ever-widening panniers ensured some witches commanded three times the space of a man. Draco was forced to display superior footwork to remain by Blaise's side without being knocked out of the way by passing beauties. 

Across the room, Hermione courtesied to the Austrian ambassador, the biggest bore in London. She threw a wicked glance at Draco as she made a great show of just having noticed Cormac McLaggen senior and beckoning him to her side. McLaggen was shamelessly displaying his knobbly knees in a kilt that surely only was appropriate north of Hadrian's Wall. If the Lord had intended knees to be on display, nobody would have invented the garter. 

Introductions were made and tedious conversation between the ambassador and McLaggen no doubt ensued; mercifully Draco was too far away to hear it, but he did notice Hermione drawing back slightly. He made his bow across the room to salute her accomplishment in setting them loose at each other instead of being rambled at.

Hermione inclined her head slightly in response, a renegade lock of hair bouncing irreverently, and Draco was suddenly hit by a wave of rightness so powerful it almost knocked him off his feet. 

It was right that the Malfoy emeralds should glimmer nestled amongst her unpowered curls, that the brightest jewel of Wizarding Britain should be here tonight. Not just for his sake, or for the Malfoys – for everyone. 

Chaining her to a stove in that Weasley hovel would have aided no one – here she would shine, like only a witch at the height of her powers could. As she walked through the crowd he imagined an invisible cord connecting them, tethering the Muggle-born to the pure-blood to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. 

Then, Hermione stopped dead as she faced Viktor Krum, and Draco almost threw up on the pineapple proudly on display on the side table next to him.

* * *

“I had an interesting conversation last night.” 

Draco shook out the ruffles on his sleeve with infinite care, fixing them with Undulation Spell once they were arranged to his satisfaction. Thus occupied, it was only natural his eyes remained downcast as he replied. “Did you really? Not with McLaggen, surely?” 

There was a smile in her voice. He did not need to look at her to know fine creases were fanning out around her eyes, a pleasant frame for their golden warmth. 

Even as a foolish boy he had admired her eyes. Once or twice. 

“No, not with McLaggen. A friend of old.”

“I believed Potter was unavoidably detained?” Even Draco had to admire Potter's ability to slip out of the official engagement he so detested. 

“So I was told. It was Viktor Krum, as it happens.” She sounded thoughtful, and Draco's heart started beating a little faster. 

The first time he had admired Hermione's eyes had been at the Yule Ball, and he had not forgotten who she had been dancing with. 

“He had interesting tidings from the continent,” she continued. 

“Oh?” 

“There are whisperings about a landing in Scotland.” 

That brought Draco up short. “By whom?” he asked, abruptly abandoning his sartorial scrutiny.

When he locked eyes with Hermione all her laughter lines had disappeared. 

“You know who. The Young Pretender.” The vehemence she attached to the words would have made Draco think twice about crossing her. He had faced her on a battlefield once; no sane man would attempt it twice. 

“Damn the Stuarts. Damn their arrogance, and damn the way we keep fighting the same battle over and over again. No more!” He thumped the table with his fist before he even realised he had raised his hand. 

“You will be fighting, then?” Hermione tilted her head to inspect him as if he were a specimen at the Royal Society. 

“Naturally. Will you not?”

She raised her wand. “To the death. I merely thought...” 

A great wave of melancholy washed over Draco, drowning the wrath that had flared just a moment ago. Being a dunderhead at sixteen was fortunately not a permanent condition, but it would be easier to move the Scottish mountains to the lawn at Malfoy Manor than convincing his wife he had ceased in his delusions. 

He stood up, made his bow and retreated to his chambers. 

Hermione did not need his assistance to plot the best course of action now, and for once he had had quite enough of his perfect wife, who evidently believed one's character was set in stone before attaining one's majority. Why had she married him, if she believed him such a scoundrel? 

Knowing Hermione, she may have considered it carefully and determined a spineless husband was a price she was willing to pay.

* * *

Events moved at a feverish pace after that. Envoys were sent to the Muggle court to warn the king, only to find he was in Hanover and the centre of power had moved. Precious time was lost attempting to figure out who could be trusted with the secret that magic still was alive in England. 

Hermione, as comfortable among Muggles as wizards, was a natural go-between; she divided her time between rousing the king's men to anything resembling action and plotting the Ministry for Magic's next move. 

Some days, Draco only caught a glimpse of her petticoats as their paths crossed in the foyer of Malfoy House. Their comfortable breakfasts were a thing of the past. He spent most of his time flitting between France, milking the Malfoi connections for all they were worth, and visiting stuffy parlours and being waited upon by house-elves. 

It was hardly the frantic life of a soldier on the frontline he had been led to expect. 

He immediately regretted saying as much to Hermione as he returned one afternoon, the flavour of ginger biscuits made from a Rosier family recipe still lingering in his mouth. 

“If you would rather be stationed at the border in the North Sea I'm sure it could be arranged.” She turned even paler than usual, and Draco wondered when she last got some fresh air. 

“I'm sure there will be more excitement than anyone sane could wish for soon enough. Will you come for a walk with me? We could Apparate to the Manor – the sun won't set for another hour.” He offered his arm, ridiculously eager for her to accept it. 

It would mean – it would mean nothing, as she shook her head immediately. 

“I must see Walpole this evening – if I can prevail upon him to speak to Carteret, much could be gained.” 

“Or nothing at all.” Draco couldn't let her go without something – anything. Anything at all that signified that she cared what became of him in the storm that was about to descend upon all of them. 

“Perhaps.” The wan smile that failed to entirely lift the drooping corners of her mouth was not what he had in mind, but it was all he was going to get. 

Weasley would probably have made her laugh properly, the bastard.

* * *

Eventually, an army marching on England woke up the sleeping Muggle lords. They dispatched more than a score battalions to meet the enemy, accompanied by a wizarding contingent. Draco bitterly regretted ever wanting to feel like a proper soldier. Apparently their life consisted of interminable movement, stopping only for substandard food and even worse lodgings. 

And that was just the officers – he shuddered to think of how the rank and file subsisted. At least he had a horse to ride – they only had their feet. 

He only glimpsed Hermione's pale face occasionally through carriage window – she held off riding until she no longer had a choice, when they got closer to the enemy. Draco knew for a fact that she used Cushioning Charms to make the carriage more comfortable, so she only had herself to blame for her motion sickness. 

“It's not a bloody exam, you know,” he told her over the smoking fire in the farmhouse they had been stationed for that night. The chimney did not work properly, so even the ale had a tinge of smokiness. “One extra curse crammed will not be the difference between winning or losing the battle.” 

“You can't know that. Besides, I'm not researching” – only Hermione would consider researching appropriate preparation for warfare – “curses for me. It's for them.” She made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the Muggle camp. 

“I don't think you will be able to teach them magic in a fortnight.” Draco looked primly at a half-cooked sausage and put it down on his plate again, in favour of a slice of dry bread. No one had their bowels turned inside out by bread. 

“Very droll.” Hermione took one look at her sausages and incinerated them, neatly illustrating why she was the clever one of them. The smell afterwards was almost appetising. “They can still be protected by it, however, so a little rapid study may offer us a strategic advantage. Or rather, we will not give the other side a strategic advantage by neglecting to do what they surely have done themselves.” 

“You believe Stuart's followers are sharing their magic with the Muggle soldiers?” 

“They did not ask first, if that's what you're imagining. The common soldiers would not know why they were faster or stronger, or even notice it. Is that not the reason we are accompanying the army – to find ways to be stronger together?” 

“I thought it was to prevent us from killing each other rather than the enemy,” Draco mumbled, but his heart wasn't in it. There had been a book when he was very young, barely able to see above his grandfather's desk, with big golden letters. 

He put his piece of bread down with such force that it bounced off the table. “Please excuse me. There is something I need to fetch at the Manor.” 

The last thing he saw before Apparating was Hermione's mouth hanging wide open. He smirked as everything turned black.


	7. Following The Drum

To someone else, Potter perhaps, the moors were probably a welcome reminder of Hogwarts with the heavy smell of gorse and wide-open spaces. 

To Draco, they were just moors. 

Hermione was riding by his side now – he was damned if he was going to leave her unescorted among the Muggle soldiers. The slender sword hanging by her side was so inconspicuous that she must have put a charm on it, which meant it was no use whatsoever as a deterrent. 

To the Muggles, at least the ones below the rank of Major-General, she was Draco's wife. He, in his turn, was a civilian accompanying the Duke of Cumberland. To the soldiers, it meant that he was an important personage but afforded him not one iota of respect. They reserved that for people who could be useful. 

Little did they know that they marched in a cloud obscuring their advance from the enemy, one of several useful enchantments in the Malfoy's battered copy of _A Treatise on Magical Warfare_. They had been up half the night, practising any spells they could decipher from the densely handwritten page, and Hermione was sloping gently forwards in the saddle. __

_ __ _

It had been worth it, however: she could leave them in the knowledge that she had done everything in her power to secure a victory. 

“Are you App- _turning back_ tonight?” Draco quickly corrected himself – a burly sergeant was riding a few paces from them, and he had no desire to arise suspicions. Especially not in someone who should be considerably stronger than usual. 

“What?” Hermione's head jerked up. Impressive: riding half asleep would have been far beyond her capabilities when they set out from London. 

“Returning home – I mean to stay with friends, as you would have to travel _so far_ to get home.” Draco reckoned he had brushed through that little trap quite well. 

Apparently, Hermione did not agree as she was glaring daggers at him. Mutual nods confirmed their agreement to find somewhere more private to speak very shortly. 

Hiding behind the only sizeable bush for miles, Hermione cast a _Muffliato_ pointing her wand so aggressively Draco was afraid it would break. 

He was about to remind her the moors were not precisely blessed with wand makers when she swirled around to point it at him instead. 

“What did you mean by going back home?” 

“The bit about friends was just to mollify the Muggles,” he hurried to explain. “It doesn't seem very plausible you'd travel that far with a small retinue- ”

She cut him off: “Do you really believe I am going home? To the Manor?” 

“I understand you may prefer to stay with your parents, but I don't think it's advisable under the circumstances- “ 

“Did you think I was joking when I said I would fight to the death? Really?” 

The look in her eyes of exasperation and- and something softer was achingly familiar. He had seen it directed at Weasley or Potter in the midst of committing some enormous blunder, before Hermione stepped in to show them the error of their ways. 

Draco had not expected to ever see it directed at him. Under normal conditions he would have savoured it, but it was only a matter of days before they made contact with the Pretender's army. 

“What about our son?” he asked gently. “Surely - “ 

The spectre of Teddy Lupin was standing between them, as solid as if he had been there in the flesh. 

She raised her chin. “It is your choice. I have been part of the battle plans since the beginning – I couldn't possibly turn back now. I thought you had made your mind up already. You do remember our conversation, surely?” 

He knew that look, too – given another second, she would retrieve her battered edition of _The Healer's Helpmate_ and attempt to diagnose his memory loss. 

“I merely – I assumed you did not think I would be brave enough. Or sufficiently concerned about the outcome.” 

She opened her mouth and closed it, before continuing with the utmost care. “It is entirely your choice. If you chose not to fight, given everything that has happened, I would not think any less of you or doubt that you are doing your very best for our son.” 

“Begging your pardon, m'lord, but the Colonel would like to get a move on –“ The sergeant burst in on their conversation like a Hippogriff in heat, and there was only time for a very long look between them before rejoining the marching soldiers. 

Draco knew he ought to turn back. His efforts were unlikely to swing the pendulum towards victory, and while there were four grandparents willing and able to care for John, he could not contemplate him being left without either a father or mother. 

He stole a glance at Hermione, back in the saddle and visibly uncomfortable, and yet she would not ever consider turning back. If Draco knew anything about her, she would be in the thick of the fight, and while he may not be able to turn the tide of battle he could at least be the person defending her back. 

Hermione would try to save all of them, but there would be no one other than him only trying to save Hermione. 

Straightening his back, Draco rode on. 

He may be the foil to her bright, shining light, but if that was the role he had been allotted, then he would play it until the end.

* * *

The moor looked the way moors do, right up until it didn't. 

The Jacobite army was too distant to be seen, and the only sound was the steady drumming of marching feet and hooves. The atmosphere was tense but calm. As they climbed a ridge, the camp followers of the other side came into view and the moor turned into a rain-sodden version of Hades. 

Most of the army was fortunate not to be able to see anything other than moorlands; the more observant of them stared at their fellow soldiers who staggered backwards or gasped audibly at the crowded horizon. 

“Need something more than cold steel in your hands when facing those,” the red-faced sergeant who had accompanied them since Aberdeen muttered to Draco. “Aye, I can see them,” he continued, noting Draco's confusion. “Ain't no special army for wizards wanting to follow the drum, is there? Be you Squib or proper magic, His Majesty has only one army.”

“So he should, given that we're one people,” Hermione said dryly. 

The sergeant glanced at her but made no comments. He was certainly more intelligent than he looked.

* * *

At first, Draco did not understand why they had to fight at night. 

Hermione pointed out that there was a remote chance that the regular soldiers would not notice the spells flying. Before he recovered his wits sufficiently to ask why the other side would want to conceal their magic from the Muggles, it was too late. 

They had set out for their allotted post, accompanied by the sergeant Draco had now learnt was a wizard from Lisburn. He turned out to be a dab hand at concealment charms, which was lucky as both Malfoys could have been mistaken for Longbottoms during their progress through the countryside. 

“It's not natural for there to be so many rabbit holes. Are we sure they haven't been tampered with?” Draco hissed as he helped Hermione free her foot from one of the aforementioned holes. 

“What, do you think there are fire-breathing rabbits down there?” She massaged her ankle, but kept going as the sergeant moved them on. They needed to be in position by midnight, and there was a lot of ground to cover. 

Literally so, as Draco tripped and fell flat on the ground. He could hear snickering from behind, but ignored it and swore never, ever to fight in a pitched battle again. 

He recalled he had sworn not to repeat the experience the last time, too, which did nothing to improve his temper. 

“Why are there bloody rocks everywhere?” he whispered to Hermione as soon as both of them were vertical. “Moors are flat, no? Are we absolutely certain the terrain hasn't been enchanted to be hostile towards us? We could be rumbled!”

He did not need to see Hermione's face to deduce that she was rolling her eyes. “Didn't you ever leave Hogsmeade when we were at Hogwarts? It's Nature, it's meant to be like this. I think we would notice if we were attacked.”

“Such a comfort,” Draco mumbled before Hermione elbowed him. 

He interpreted that as a sign that it was time to stop talking, and promptly did. She had exceedingly sharp elbows, not to mention being much better at fighting battles than he was.

* * *

They could see the lights of Nairn twinkling in the distance; they were too far away to hear the Muggles toast to the health of the Duke of Cumberland. Celebrating the commander's twenty-fifth birthday was a useful distraction to keep all but specifically selected Muggles out of the way. 

Out on the moors, a ferocious battle was fought with only flashes of magic to illuminate it. The Pretender must have brought most of his Muggle soldiers too, so confusion reigned supreme. 

A silver lynx appeared behind Hermione, and Draco threw himself on her to get her out of harm's way before he recalled which side he was on. 

“It's from Kingsley,” Hermione explained, any complaints forgotten with the first tangible reminder that they were not fighting alone, that the chaotic movements on the moor were part of a carefully considered battle plan. 

Or at least Draco hoped there was one, not having been privy to the discussions. 

_“Main enemy force attacking the left flank, signal to follow from the west.”_

“From the _west_!” Draco groaned as the Patronus turned and ran away, no doubt to the next sentry. “Are they bloody joking?” 

“I'm afraid Charles Edward Stuart doesn't give a damn how much time you spent fine-tuning our defensive spells.” Hermione was already busy with her wand, carefully changing direction for the intricately constructed web of spells. 

Curses, mostly; they were not at Hogwarts anymore. 

“What do we do now, then?” he asked with would-be nonchalance once they had finished. “Wait?”

“Aye, m'lord. Better enjoy it while it lasts, seeing as it's the best part.” The sergeant leaned against a rock that had no business being on the open moor and crossed his arms. 

It lasted all of half a minute; then there was movement in the bushes next to them. A very familiar head of unpowdered black hair appeared. 

“Potter. Fancy meeting you here. And Weasley, of course.” Draco would have bet at least half his fortune that Mrs Potter had stayed at home, ensuring there would be no more orphaned little Potters. Being outfoxed by Hermione regularly was bad enough; it was worse when even Potter had better contingency planning than the Malfoys. 

Well, the die had been cast – better get on with it. 

Hermione did not say anything – she merely touched Potter's arm and locked eyes with Weasley. Then they disappeared, accompanied by a faint rustling. 

“What was that about?” Draco asked, realised as he spoke that it was a reconnaissance mission to make sure Potter and Weasley could Apparate there if needed. 

When the battle started. 

If it ever did; the Pretender seemed to have taken up permanent residence at his camp. Perhaps he fancied a good night's sleep before the battle. 

Or perhaps he chose to attack at the precise moment Draco started to relax infinitesimally, because right then the sky burst into flames and Hell erupted around them. 

His back was against Hermione's, shoulder by shoulder with the Irish sergeant who was no mean fighter. It was impossible to tell who attacked – Draco assumed it was the enemy, and did his best to put a stop them. 

Permanently, preferably. 

His mind was a disjointed sequence of curses and flashes of light, with no time to recover from an attack until the next was upon them. 

They were meant to hold their position, that much he knew. So held it he did, parrying any attacks to allow Hermione to carry on whatever she was doing at the front. 

Draco barely had time to look up, but the one time he managed a sideways glance westwards several beacons of light stretched into the cloud-swollen skies. Shadows flitted in and out, and even at a distance he could see the familiar green light accompanying the Killing Curse. 

“Retreat! They're sounding retreat!” the sergeant squeezed out while returning a particularly nasty curse. 

“My orders are to hold this position. No matter what.” Hermione was breathless but not even the Dark Lord would have dared to argue with her. “What are you two waiting for? Go!” 

There was temporary silence in their little circle, despite the barrage of spells from outside it. 

“I'm pretty certain there was a bit in our marriage vows about this. 'For better or worse', as I recall. I'm staying.” 

“Aye, good lad. So am I: my orders were to remain with you.” 

“Then I release you from them.” Hermione was beginning to wobble slightly at the impact of the full force of the attackers. Draco could feel the tips of his ears singeing, and he was finding it hard to breathe. 

“Is that so? Then I will stay of my own free –“ 

The world turned upside down, and the sky was burning with the fire of a thousand suns. Draco flew through the air quicker than he ever had on a broom, only realising that the wall in front of him was the ground as he was about to hit it.

If it had to end like this –


	8. Interludes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head over to Tumblr for cover art, mood board and soundtrack, all done by the amazing Kay: 
> 
> https://yakproductions.tumblr.com/post/187155772273/here-is-art-for-wipbigbang-and-my-lovely-writing

Draco was quite sure he was submerged in water because everything was slow and disjointed and blurry. Or was he moving through time? Turrets beckoned beneath him and flags streamed, and ahead in the distance a dark mist was approaching at speed, wrapping everything in its suffocating embrace. 

He screamed, and reality hit him like a punch in the face. 

There was pain – quite a lot of it – and his tongue was stuck to his throat, parched like a desert, and holding up his head seemed like a superhuman effort. Hermione's head was bent down – Hermione, and only now he remembered where and when he was. 

His right hand fumbled for his wand, in vain, but it did some good – Hermione noticed he was awake. 

She did not raise her head, which indicated there was something drastically wrong with his bottom half, but she did speak: 

“You're injured but not fatally. Sergeant Donovan is dead. The battle continues, but we are currently surrounded by enemy forces.” 

“Mgreh?” was all Draco could manage. It was fortunate he had married the cleverest witch in Christianity because she understood what he was asking. 

“We're in a disused shepherd's hut – when the famous Highland Charge reached us I managed to drag you away in the confusion. I think they were mostly French – perhaps that's why they didn't do it right.” 

Alternatively, it could have something to do with them facing one of the most powerful witches in Britain (or France). Hermione had not wasted her time since the last war. 

All that thinking was strenuous – the headache that had been biding its time since he woke up returned with full force. Draco closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, he was bobbing up and down on a peaceful river.

* * *

The next time he woke up, the headache lingered but was not as severe. Draco felt rather cheerful – being in a battle was not so bad, not when one could lie down. He could see the outlines of the hut now, illuminated by the flashes of magic in the sky. The colours were so pretty, he could watch them all night. 

An attempt to turn his head a fraction was rewarded by a stab of sharp, clear pain, but he managed to get Hermione in his line of sight again. She was his wife, it was only fitting he should be looking after her. 

She was looking quite tense, now that he came to think about it. 

“Are you awake?” she asked, glancing in his direction. 

He moved his hand instead of nodding. A wand had been pressed into it, he noticed. 

“I've given you my spare wand. If the wards come down, I need you to activate your emergency Portkey as we practised before the battle. Can you remember that?” 

A dim sense of foreboding penetrated his pleasant befuddlement. Using a Portkey was the equivalent of planting a lighthouse to announce the presence (or rather absence) of a wizard. The enemy would alight upon Hermione immediately. 

She would not need Draco to activate the Portkey if she were coming with him. Hermione had been the custodian of the battle plans from the very beginning, and the grim cast of her mouth indicated that things were not going her way. Their way. 

A great wave of weariness swept over Draco. Even if he had been _compos mentis_ he would not have been able to think of the right words to persuade her to abandon the battle, because they did not exist. 

Hermione Granger would fight until the end, no matter what name she bore. 

“'S like an Unvisibility Cloak. Invisibilility Cloak,” he corrected himself – the words were fuzzy in his head, but he finally managed to put them in order. 

“It is, is it?” Hermione was doing something complicated with her wand, but Draco was too preoccupied with his epiphany to notice. “What is?” she asked, less absentmindedly. 

“Your courage. It's part of you, but it only becomes noticeable when you use it to wrap around other people.” It made perfect sense in his head, but Hermione was looking a bit dubious. “Oh, I know. Don't think I don't know you haven't had a choice, that you've cloaked yourself in courage since the age of eleven out of necessity. I do know that.” 

He swallowed before he continued, his throat curiously dry. It was impossible to shake off the feeling that this bit was vitally important. If only he could let go of the ground to stop himself from floating away in the air Draco would be able to _concentrate_. 

“I would like to – If we come back, I want to do it with you. Whatever it is you want to do.” He frowned, hit by a stray thought. “You're far more likely than me to hit upon the right thing, in any case.” 

He looked at her, still tending to his wound, and marvelled at how very beautiful she was. As if she were lit from within. 

“Nevertheless. You shouldn't have to do it alone anymore. At least I love you, even if you won't ever love me.” He let his head slump back, suddenly tired beyond reason. 

“Oh, Draco,” was all she said. If had been anyone other than Hermione he would have sworn she was crying as she turned away from him, but Hermione never cried. 

At least not in front of him. 

Draco almost dozed off to sleep despite the pain, until the dragon arrived. 

“What –“ Hermione raised her head, and what happened next was straight out of Draco's nightmares from the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Their bubble of relative safety, protected by Hermione's wards, was torn apart, and everything descended into chaos. 

The ground shook as hooves thundered past inches from Draco's face. He tried to roll out of the way, only to recoil from the fire on his other side. The dragon was setting the ground on fire. 

The only way things could get any worse – 

His heart almost stopped when he lifted his head a little, only to discover Hermione duelling three opponents. Ducking and weaving, she managed to stay clear until one of them broke ranks to attack her flank. She took a hit to her shoulder, stumbling in the direction of the other two just as Draco recalled he should have a wand somewhere. 

It wavered as he stretched it out towards the third witch, the one that had detached herself from the other two. She was moving behind Hermione, and Draco had to act quickly if he were to stop her. 

He had just positioned himself so his curse would go past Hermione and hit the other witch as Weasley said: 

“Oh no, you bloody well won't!” 

Draco's wand was kicked out of his hand and everything turned black.

* * *

“They caught the Chimaera in Perth,” someone said. 

“Finally. Can we please go home now?” 

Weasley's voice made Draco flinch, which alerted him to the fact that he apparently still was alive. 

The voices in the background faded to a murmur as he did a quick inventory of limbs and injuries. As far as he could ascertain without actually moving, all his extremities were still attached. The level of pain was moderate, and his surroundings warm and dry. 

Which only left one concern. 

“Hgrhg – Hermione,” he managed to squeeze out, abandoning all caution. 

“I guess we'll have to deal with him_, too,” Weasley said, as if he were talking about disposing of the contents of a chamber pot. _

“How many times do I have to tell you no 'dealing' is required?” A vision with hair sticking out in all possible directions, wrapped in a familiar brown cloak appeared next to Draco. She glared at Weasley before turning to Draco, her clear brown eyes softening until he nearly forgot to breathe. She looked like – 

She was looking at him like he always had wanted her to, ever since he understood how lucky he was to have married her. And she had just defended him to Weasley, of all people. 

“I saw him pointing his wand at you!” Weasley was not one for letting go. 

“We were in a battle, Ron – you were waving your own wand around, as I recall. He was alone with me for hours – why in the name of Merlin would he have waited until there were witnesses and the Stuart wards were finally down? If he'd have killed me half an hour before then, your head would have been on a spike by now.”

Weasley turned puce, a sign indicating to the discerning that he was apoplexy was around the corner. 

“She's right, Ron. I'd also like to go home now. Can't you just admit you were wrong?” Potter, of course. 

“You should apologise to Draco –“ Hermione began, and even Draco realised that was not a good idea. 

“S' fine,” he whispered, and Hermione's head whipped around to face him again. “I want to go home, too,” he said, and somehow that swung it.

* * *

Many long hours passed before he got an opportunity to speak privately to Hermione. They had a tearful reunion with John, and Hermione disappeared to deal with the aftermath of the battle. She returned in a grim mood, full of disdain for Cumberland, only to leave again in search of the Minister for Magic. 

Draco had retreated to bed; presumably, she sought her own eventually since she looked noticeably fresher by the time she visited his bedside. 

“What did the Healer say?” she asked without preamble. 

“As long as I keep drinking this,” he held up a vial with a vile bottle-green concoction, “I can do whatever I like. Within reason.” 

Hermione frowned. “Why are you still in bed, then?” 

“Because I've decided the rest of the world can make do without me until lunchtime.” The windows were open, letting in the spring breeze. Draco closed his eyes and breathed in the air, so different from the smell of the soggy moor. 

A curious, tight little smile sat awkwardly on Hermione's lips. “I will leave you alone, then.”

She gathered her skirts to rise but came to a standstill when Draco's long pale hand rested lightly on her arm. 

“Please stay. Just for a little while.” 

She sank back down on the chair next to his bed with unexpected grace. “The Healer said you had a concussion.” 

“Yes.” Draco was admiring the way sunshine filtered through the branches of the apple tree outside, making a handsome pattern on the floor. 

“You were a little... confused during the battle.” 

He sat straight up on the bed, every trace of peace having vanished. As far as he could tell, he remembered everything, but how could he know? Then again, what else had there been to say that could be more revealing than what he already had let slip?

“You should let the news of your conquest spread over town. It may not be very fashionable to make your own husband fall in love with you, but in this case, I believe it will increase your consequence.” It was hard to sound nonchalant, but he congratulated himself as he came to the end. 

He had acknowledged it – surely the worst was over now. 

Hermione looked utterly astounded. “Draco, I –“ 

Perhaps not. 

He closed his eyes, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Then, a witch landed in his lap, panniers and all, and Hermione was suddenly kissing him like it was the most important thing in the world. 

Draco was not entirely stupid – as soon as he realised what was happening, he started kissing her back. 

“How – Why –“ he asked when breathing became a rather pressing concern and they reluctantly broke apart. 

She placed her palms on each side on his face, and Draco wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer. 

“During the battle, when you were just lying there and I didn't know if you were dead, couldn't check because if I moved our defences would come down and everything would be lost –“ She shivered, and he rested his forehead against hers, only pulling apart again so he could see her eyes. 

They were full of tears but shone like stars. “I love you. I just didn't dare to believe you love me in return.” 

Draco was grinning like a halfwit, but he did not care. Hermione must not either, as she resumed kissing him as if her life depended on it.

* * *

“What twaddle is the _Daily Prophet_ offering to the masses?” Draco carefully set down his cup of cocoa, in case he was not going to like what he found out. 

“I thought you didn't approve of publications 'resorting to slander from their inception'?” There was a smile in Hermione's eyes that made Draco want to fling the bedcovers away and do something he really should not be thinking about with a tray holding hot liquid resting on his lap. 

“One does not read the paper to find out what to think, one reads it to learn what others think.” 

“Then one will have to read it oneself later. I, on the other hand, applaud the new Quidditch ban at Hogwarts and intend to read all about it now.”

“_What_? Give me that!” Draco dove across the bed to get to the newspaper she triumphantly was waving in her hand. Hermione was laughing like a maniac, the cocoa spilt everywhere and somehow a pillow burst, decorating the room and all its contents with white feathers. 

It was the complete opposite to the bloodless propriety he had imagined, and it was glorious. 

The children burst in, putting an end to coherent thoughts. Only a fleeting concern lingered – what on earth had he done to deserve all this?

** THE END**


End file.
